


Here We Stand

by Belewitts



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Episode Related, Gap Filler, Gen, Scheming, silver does not know how to do the feeling thing, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belewitts/pseuds/Belewitts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max's hand caught on the blanket, stopping just before the tips of her fingers touched his. She looked at his leg.</p><p>“How did this happen?”</p><p>“Painfully,” he rasped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here We Stand

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed more of these two.

Silver had never liked the quiet.

Some men and women he was sure found silence a comfort, but for him it was always a sign of terrible things to be avoided. The sudden stop of cursing that came at the end of a hanged man's drop. The lack of thought in starved eyes, and the exhausted mute of labor of the poor.

He had, once, through a series of unfortunate accidents found himself in the hills of La Rioja surrounded by nothing but olive groves and the bent backs of broken pickers. The silence had been terrible. He'd leapt on the back rumble of the first post-chaise he saw and clung to it all the way to Navvare simply to get away from the damned quiet.

At the time he intended to seek his fortune in Barcelona. They said that was a city which was alive day and night. But the ensuing events, which he preferred not to dwell on, left him instead in Dorset at Lyme of all places. Which really was just adding insult to injury, but one could always make something of their circumstances. At least that's what he'd told himself, as far back as St. Johns when he and the other listless orphans were suffering daily under a pastor's cane and sermons on original sin.

If Silver had to pick a single turning point in his very meandering life it would probably be sitting on that awful bench. Tiny, hungry and cold, and struck by the notion that if the game was rigged from the start, then really, there was no reason to play by the rules.

Now he was lying on a cushioned window seat in the opulent cabin of a Man of War, just beyond the bay of Nassau, and listening to another terrible silence. Only this time there was no running away from it. A fact impressed on him by the empty space where half his leg used to be. He was coming up short on ways to make something of _that_ circumstance.

Normally Cuddy would be playing his fiddle. There'd be feet pounding all over the deck, in stumbling jigs and reels. There'd be arguments breaking out and the clink of rum bottles, and men egging each other on in brawls and bawdy stories. The proper kind of din that said life was, if not good, at least in full flamboyant swing.  

There was none of that now. Two hundred some men had gone so quiet that the only sound to be heard was the ship creaking at anchor, and one poor fool singing “Where am I to go me Johnnies,” as if they were trying to bandage the silence like a horrible wound. It was torturous and the ache in Silver's leg felt like it was mounting with every fucking verse.

He hadn't seen a soul since they dropped anchor and Flint left the cabin wrapping a black scarf round his face. He'd heard him order the Launch. Heard it lowered over the side and the bustle of men at work, and then nothing. Hours had passed since Flint left, to do fuck knew what to get back his gold. The man hadn't been in a sharing mood since Charleston. 

He half wondered if Flint had passed his angry silence onto the men when he left, like some witches spell, just to ensure the torture continued in his absence.

He could picture them all, leaning over the gunwales, peering into the dark and listening for the roar of cannon fire. Each of them wondering when the island might announce that Flint's war with England was to preceded by a war with Nassau over the Urca de Lima's gold.

If Flint died the Walrus men would likely disband he thought, and if Silver survived the next few hours there was a chance they'd let him go when their ranks cracked, and he could escape the assignment of Quartermaster. He could, perhaps, hobble his way ashore, find Max, take his share and then... and then...

Well that was the question wasn't it.

Assuming he survived Vane and his men, and assuming Flint's crew didn't feel some strange obligation to keep him even if they disbanded. He'd be a rich cripple on an island of thieves.

_“Where am I to go me Johnnies, oh where am I to go?_

_For I’m a young sailor boy and where am I to go.”_

Dumb George sang from the deck and Silver grabbed the cup on the crate beside him, stopping himself just short of chucking it at the door. He screwed his eyes shut, swallowing his temper and the vulgar threat of something wet at the back of his throat, and laid back down with the cup on his chest. Satisfying as throwing it may be, it would only bring Muldoon, or Dooley's goat-faced head in here, asking after him and wanting to “help.”

Silence and Dumb George's singing were certainly the lesser evils, but Christ did he have to keep going on about it? Where was Billy? Shouldn't he be keeping the men in line?

Finally, just after the six bells, Dumb George and the silence broke.

First there was a a hail from the lookout. Too distant for Silver to make out the words, but he rose up on his elbows, listening harder then he ever had at key holes. Next came the rush of boots and voices from the decks as men manned the quarters. Then there was quiet again, until someone gave a hearty bellow which was quickly follow by thrilled whistles and halloos. Someone called for rum and there were cheers, laughter, and the sound of boarders.

What the fuck was going on out there?

Silver pushed himself upright on his cushioned prison, staring intently at the cabin door, and the torchlight dancing through its panes. He fisted the blanket besides his knees and deeply regretted not asking anyone to get him a pistol when Flint left.

He wondered if Flint was dead. It was hard to imagine. If he was, Vane would take the ship again, but the crew wouldn't be happily uncorking rum and drinking with Vane's men. Not after Charleston. So who the fuck had just come on board?

Perhaps Flint had survived, quietly done whatever he'd set out to that night and returned with a new plan for the treasure.

The handle on the cabin door turned, and Silver faced the door as it opened, both hands gripping the seat beneath him and his one remaining foot on the deck. Ready to leap up, and only dimly remembering that wouldn't be possible.

The door swung wide and a wash of noise filled the cabin. He could see Dooley with a whore in one arm, and a bottle in the other with Dumb George nearby by being effectively shut up with a lady's tongue down his throat. A shapely figure in a long dress blocked the rest of his view of the deck, and then stepped past the threshold and quietly closed the door on Dooley's enthusiastic face behind her.

“Blackbeard's retinue returns?“ Silver croaked from the sill as Max came near and her eyes fixed on his missing leg.

“The men thought a visit would lift your spirits,” she replied and then leaned down to light a lamp on Flint's desk from the nearby tinder box.

Silver had been sitting in the dark since the Captain left, just before sundown. Uninterested in the exhausting and frankly humiliating effort it would take to drag himself across the floor, light a candle and then hop his way back, simply to have a bit of light.

It wasn't as if he was expecting company.

“Of course they did.” Silver shook his head at the men, then peered at Max. “Though I wouldn't have thought a madam would be offering those particular services.”

“You would be right.” Max sat in the chair, Flint's chair, which still sat at corners with the window sill. “When Mr. Dooley apprised me of your ... condition, and asked what whore would best suit you I persuaded him that a less vigorous evening would be more welcome tonight.”

“I appreciate that.” He leaned back against window sill. “Though I have to say, an entire company of whores arriving on deck is not the welcome I was expecting from Nassau.... Who sent you?”

“No one sent me.” Max smiled. “This is merely a gesture of good faith while our Captains settle terms.”

“Terms?”

“For the management of the gold.”

“Management. They're going to manage it, Jesus,” he swore softly, and lay back on the bench, pulling his one remaining leg up after him. Max was staring at the stump, a delicate frown marring her brow. He wanted to cover up the wound, but there was no hiding the obvious dip in the blanket. Or the empty space below it.

“Why are you here?” He finally asked

“You did not think I would ask after you.”

He snorted and looked up at the ceiling. “Frankly no. In the unlikely event no one opened fire on each other and I survived the night, I expected you'd take my absence to mean I died in Charleston and divide my share among yourselves accordingly. It's certainly what I would have done, in your place.”

“Perhaps, if things had gone differently we would have, but Captain Flint's crew did not come ashore as we thought,” she shifted forward, skirts rustling, and Silver held himself very still, primed for the news which she slowly dolled out.     

“In fact we did not know any of them had returned at all until Flint had a knife to Jack's throat, and had Jack's former shipmate not been there I believe he would have killed him.”

“Vane?” Silver frowned.

Flint had told no one he was leaving until he ordered the launch. He hadn't told the crew they'd lost the gold and he'd barely spoken to Billy when the bosun asked why they'd anchored so far from Nassau, and when the crew could expect to go home.

Vane had been in the cabin then. Silver had watched him, watching Flint. He'd watched him leave in a haze of smoke, dropping his cigarro in Flint's rum. He watched the look they shared, like two dogs circling the ring.

Billy's words about trophies had churned together with Vane's about keeping strong sailors for Nassau, each statement vying in his head to be the most likely outcome. He'd thought Vane would wait on board with rest of them, and then if Flint died retake the ship he'd practically swam to Charleston to acquire.

It seemed he did not have Vane figured as well as he'd hoped. That was not ideal.

“Was that as unexpected for you as it was for me?” he asked Max.

“More, I should think. Your men did not come to the beach and hear that Nassau was flush with gold and the surprise of your shipmates, which we had anticipated was instead _entirely_ ours. The only way this could be was if someone had already told Captain Flint what he would find here.” Max leaned in until her nose was almost on level with his. “When Jack asked what had become of the man that told Flint of this do you know what he said?”

“I suspect you're going to tell me.”

“All he said was _'we're keeping him'_.”

Silver swallowed the hot, sick feeling that rippled down his throat, keeping as much of it from his face as he could before pulling out a shadow of his old smirk for her benefit.

“So, you came to see how much they'd tortured me.”

She sat back, leaving cold air and the scent of perfume lingering behind her. “A precaution I'm sure you can understand, mon cher. However much it may be deserved in their eyes, surely if the captain tortured the first man who betrayed him, he would not hesitate to do the same to Jack and the others. No matter what was said today.”

“Why, are you thinking of betraying him already?” he teased.

Max did not answer. She looked at his leg instead, her hand moved over the blanket, catching on it, but stopping just before the tips of her fingers touched his.

“How did this happen?”

“Painfully,” he rasped, moving his hand away, and clutching at his loose shirt.

“Did Flint--”

“No.” He cut her off, and it stopped her for a moment but then she pressed on again, soft and slow as if trying to offer assurance that whatever shame was keeping him silent didn't need to be held with her.

“It would be customary for them to try and take back the value of what they lost from you.”

He laughed. The sound of it almost lost in a cheerful din raging outside the cabin. Someone out there had begun to holler You Spanish Ladies.

“You know, not long ago I would have said even the stupidest man on this ship could count well enough to know there's not enough of me to squeeze five million Spanish dollars out of.” He soured. “I'm learning, to my expense, not to overestimate them.” 

Once more he saw the unrolled bag of knives, tasted the rum, smelled the blood and saw... them. There had been something in their eyes when they held him down on the table. Something he'd seen in the faces of children attached to stray dogs, and mothers with to babies and bankers to the coins going into their pocket. A deep, powerful kind of greed that had never been directed at him before.

“I told them them I didn't want it,” he whispered, all the hate and frustration and fucking agony of it bleeding out of him like the wound was still raw. “But they wanted to _save_ me.” He laughed again.

“How?” She pressed.

He waved a hand in the air. “Vane's men wanted my opinion on matter and I had to say no. They were displeased to say the least.”

He tapped a thumb against his temple and considering whether to say more, or keep his counsel, but really, who else would he say these things to? Flint?

Max was a practical girl. She would use whatever he told her, and he appreciated that. It could, in fact, work in his favor. Having one person on this island who knew what really happened. Who was not attached or beholden to Flint or Vane or anyone else. Someone he could, perhaps, count as an ally on the day those men decided they were done with him. Someone who didn't expect him to be their brother, or a better man, or whatever the fuck it was Flint wanted.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he began with feigned idleness. “I said that when I see an opportunity--”

“You take it,” she finished.

“Well,” he started, warming to the story and pretending it was just one more tall tale. “We were prisoners of Vane's crew and I saw an opportunity to steal the keys to our chains. I made sure they were in Billy's hands when they dragged me off. Then one of them asked me to name eight crewman who would be willing to sail away with them and save myself in process and I realized.... I'd just fucked myself.

“It was the perfect opportunity,” he mused and reached out, curling his hand in the air is if he could grab the past moment. “But I couldn't take it.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “If I did what he asked then the moment that Billy, who was currently freeing himself and the other men walked into that cabin, and witnessed that betrayal I would have been dead anyway, only by Billy's hand instead of theirs. All I could do was stall. All I _had_ to do was stall,” he grit out.

“I understand.” Max soothed.

“Do you,” he almost sneered.

“Yes.” Her voice was more forceful and he looked up to find her with arms braced on either side of him. Affected compassion covered every line of her body like the sheath of leather over a cutlass. “I know how dangerous men are. Some, with sense, can be reasoned with. They can be convinced that they will enjoy seduction more than your rape. That what is best for you is most desirable to them. But in order to lead such men away from the danger they pose to you, they must have ears to listen and something between those ears to... massage.”

“I understand,” she continued. “Because I know what it is to walk through this world aware that men are always most dangerous when you first meet them. Before you have taken their measure. Before you can say, this is what he wants, and fears. Before you know where he can be lead. For in that moment before you speak--”

“He could take a fucking hammer off the wall,” Silver croaked.

“Oui,”

He considered his one time business partner. There was no real regret in her. Nothing like the weighty looks he'd been getting from Howell, and Billy... even from Flint. There was sympathy, yes, but it was harder and less invested, and under the veneer of friendship, somehow more authentic to him.

Max made a curious face, like she was working some troublesome sum, and then suddenly asked. “If you'd known that offer would be on the table would you have left the keys then? Would you have given Vane's men what they wanted, and left Flint and the rest to them behind and sailed back here for the cash.”

He swallowed and the answer he intended give, a resounding _yes_ , got stuck in his throat.

He was only distantly familiar with the sensation of regret but when he thought of leaving his men behind, men that had stood up and started a brawl to _defend_ him, that feeling made itself very inconveniently at home. At least, he thought it was regret. It was an entirely new sensation so a little hard to say for sure.

Every single one of those men had risen when he was about to be dragged away. Even Billy, the least gullible of them all. It was very different from rousing a mob with a well placed word or two before wiping his hands of the chaos and slipping away. He hadn't even done anything. They just... stood. All on their own.

Then they took his leg. All on their own.

Max was waiting for his answer and the silence, as always, was telling. Another reason he hated the quiet. Eventually she stood to look out the aft window above him.

“What do you wish to do now?”

“Pardon?”

“You have a share in this prize still. Money to live as comfortably as you can with this.” She gestured at his leg.

Silver scoffed. “What would I tell the men?”

“Do you need to tell them anything?”

“The voted me Quartermaster,” he confessed, rubbing at his brow. Understanding stole over her features and Silver shared a wince with her. “And I can't think of any way I could spin that particular story. A man who, as far as they know, is as penniless as they are and has just been crippled, leaving his seemingly secure position and all the men who promised to take fucking care of him to... what, go beg on street corner?” He sighed. “Not even Randall would have believed that. I have to be one of them now.” Then he looked her in the eye and answered the real questions. “I can't keep the money.”

She nodded. “I _am_ sorry mon cher. We will use it wisely. As Jack promised.”

“I'm not Flint,” he said. “I don't give a fuck what you use it for.”

That caught her attention. As he thought it might, and he smirked. He had a fair idea what Flint had wanted that money for, after seeing how much effort he'd put into the plan for Charleston. A plan that as of a few days ago was as much a smoking ruin as the colony. He also suspected that Max would not care one wit about any of that.

He had no idea what Flint would want now, but whatever course Flint blew them onto next, Silver was quite certain Max would be there, furthering her own interests somewhere in the background.

“Why tell me all of this then?” She narrowed those black eyes at him.

“Well we never know what a new day will bring do we? Its all just... transitions. One state of affairs shifting into another.”

“Like sand.”

“And at the end of the day, it'd be foolish to consider my position on this ship as any more permanent than the rest of it.” He couldn't help looking down at the remains of his leg then, and the very permanent absence below his knee. “The wind will change one day, or their mood. They'll get angry. They'll find out the thing they were so fucking grateful for never existed. Or their guilt will just run out, and then where will Johnnie be?” he whispered, mostly to himself.

“You're afraid of them,” she whispered.

He pushed himself up onto an elbow so he wasn't quite so far beneath her.

“Aren't you?” he challenged, curious.

She fiddled with a ring on her hand. A very expensive looking piece with a red stone.

“I am not so easily discarded as I once was. I have assets now. Interests. These things are possible because of them. Because I built them here. I fear those men less then a world that would deny me a chance to build these things at all. I do not care what banner flies from that fort, so long as I remain standing beneath it.”

Silver nodded. He leaned over and poured a generous dose of rum from the bottle on the crate beside him into his small cup, and handed it to her while taking the bottle for himself.

“To remaining standing,” he toasted. “No matter the devil with we deal with to do it.”

They shared a drink, and an understanding, and the ship creaked around them while the men outside caroused. Tomorrow Flint would return and they would all be allies.

The next day? Who could say.  
   


End file.
